“We all go through periods of doubt, Bart, but you can’t go fucking crazy.”
— Jincy Willett, The Writing Class
(photo by me)
Everywhere I go, there is some kind of egg sandwich. In a diner in Williamsburg, I order one with brie and two wet, scrambled eggs. I eat it while talking to my cousin, a painter, who has large eyes and a small, hairy dog named Chester, the only animal who doesn’t annoy me when wearing a coat. We wonder aloud how our relatives could possibly belong to us, and we marvel, not just at our survival, but at how we flourish, two girls raised to be skeptical, if not entirely distrustful, of our instincts.
I make a salad in our kitchen while there’s a concert happening in the other room. The salad has purple cabbage and ginger and raisins and mango and lemon juice and carrots, which I grate madly while people clap. I twist my hair up and drive a pencil through the knot and wonder for a moment if it will leave a mark on my scalp. There might be many marks there, after years of using pens to hold up my hair. Years of wondering where my pens have gone and then finding them in my head, like everything else that’s worth finding.